Not Nancy
by ten.years.only.with.you
Summary: The day she realizes that she isn't the Nancy to his Dodger, the pages tear. Lit.


The day she realizes that she is not Nancy anymore the eyeliner is smudged, creeping into the ethereal cerulean of her second generation orbs.

She is still her mother's daughter, which is why she goes three floors underneath the archives and intuitively strides with purpose over to the Victorian Lit section. Fingers streaming over the aged binds of pages, she feels her way through Charlotte Bronte and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and right before the works of Sir Arthur Canon Doyle she rests on Charles Dickens and his collected works. It lies between Bleak House and Great Expectations.

Its pages are yellowed, dog-eared and entirely perfect. Someone has taken the liberty of scratching pencil thin notes in the margins, and she smirks. Running a skilled hand through the leaves of words, she rests on the chapter where Oliver floats aimlessly into the care of the keenest member of London's most sly and saucy pickpocket. As soon as her gaze lands on the name of said member, she slams the book shut and sticks it, carelessly, back into the shelf with its brethren.

A sharp hiss escapes her lips, and she snatches her cherry red trench from the floor. Turning on her heel, snapping the messenger bag to her hip, chestnut hair flashing around her neck, she quietly exits from the dank level, elevator spitting her out on the ground floor.

The Yale campus is eerily silent, except for the clack of her high heeled boots against the pavement, skirt thrashing upon her kneecaps. Snow litters the grounds, blanketing the walk home. She spies various lights illuminating dorm rooms and apartment complexes, creating constellations in the velvet night. His ("theirs", though she insisted on keeping her own, personal, private place, which he tried to refuse) is on. And she needs an escape.

He answers the door, before her key turns in the lock. Until a molting sunrise over the windowsill, she feels enveloped in security. When the hint of orange peeks through, the weight of the night before holds heavy, casting sideways shadows over his face. Tufts of blond poke in every direction, creamy skin decorated with clusterfucks of freckles, smarmy grin apparent even in his not so waking hours.

She shifts a bit, quaking beneath his touch, trying not to disturb the slumber of the rich and fabulous.

Damnit.

A present of coffee is declined, and she has to give him credit because he crooks his head in disbelief, brown eyes flashing with concern. He knows her well enough in that respect for sure, but it's easy to paint him into a character that she cannot care for.

She accepts his lips on her cheek, nodding when he replies that he'll call.

He sends roses with baby's breath with a request for dinner that night.

(She always preferred sunflowers.)

He is right on time, something her mother always declared to be a faux pas. You never arrive at eight for an eight o'clock date. At least eight fifteen.

(She was always used to having an extra fifteen minutes.)

Dinner is seven courses long with bottles of red wine that cost more than her tuition for the semester. Her dress is short and silky, tempting his eyes to wander, admiring the porcelain skin scanning the coast of her body. He gives the cat ate the canary grin and raises his left eyebrow mischievously.

Two hours later the dress lies in a heap on the floor, tangled in her Jimmy Choos and his over the top black vintage suit. He is fast asleep no doubt dreaming about a society wedding and their honeymoon in Mykonos. Her eyes are wide open, gazing out the window, thinking of Oliver Twist.

She never thinks that she could have lived in nineteenth century London with the black coal laced streets and notoriously high crime rates, pick pocketing or prostituting to make it out alive. Not unless the market sold sunflowers for half a pence and they arrived mysteriously on her windowsill long after she had gone to bed.

_He_ would have found a way to put the sunflowers there. _He_, the Artful Dodger. The messy follower of Fagin, wrapped up in snatching handkerchiefs and dawdling after Nancy just to catch a glance.

"_Goodnight Dodger." _

"_Dodger?"_

"_Figure it out."_

"_Oliver Twist__."_

She is her mother's daughter so she sneaks out in the night, retracing Oliver's trail out of the repressive household and back to her own bed, shoes in hand, shawl spread messily over her shoulders.

Star's Hollow is dark and dim, charming in its calm. Racing past a blur of houses and businesses, she finally reaches home. Mom is up, and noticing her disheveled garb, heads to the kitchen with a nod, filling the coffee pot. The door to her room is flung open as she raids it, tearing apart every inch till she finds it, hidden in a place so deep that she was never meant to find it again, but just close enough to pull on heart strings when timing wasn't everything.

Mom is already sitting at the kitchen table, two cups of coffee and a plate of Pop Tarts and marshmallows in preparation, smiling in encouragement. So she walks over, letting the shawl drop to the wood floor, placing the box on the table.

Both women take a sharp intake of breath, clasping hands, reveling in the comfortable quiet. Normally a Gilmore would talk and talk and talk until the day had run out, but this time all the air seemed to escape from the room. More than not, it probably had to do with the name on said box: "Dodger".

She tips open the flap, revealing the inside, filled to the brim with tokens and trinkets, worn down with time and lack of energy. Closing her eyes and rifling through the items, she feels the spine against her fingers, contentedly wrapping her fingers around the book and slowly pulling it out.

Oliver Twist.

Mom grins. She questions, flipping to chapter nine, eyes dancing over the sentences, stringing together the words, maybe getting comprehension. When a bout of giggles arises at the interaction between the Dodger and Oliver, Mom hands her a marshmallow and pats her hand.

The giggles stop when she turns the page, skimming her finger over the margin note in the top left hand corner. Breath hitches in her throat, thick. She gulps down coffee, glancing up at Mom who nods at the book, keep going. Her finger feels heavy with the ring (princess cut, gold band, far too fancy for her taste), engulfing the skin, weighing far too much for her to carry on. She remembers when _he_ used to read out loud, soothing her nerves in that commanding voice, husky from cigarettes and sarcasm.

Tears are coming now, choking those ethereal blue orbs of hers. The ring is too cumbersome. His hair is too blond. His flowers are roses. He is Bill Sikes. And she can feel her death coming in a matter of weeks, just like Nancy's.


End file.
